Sorting through my late grandmothers belongings, I unearthed her diary and learned the truth about my father.
Mother, I cant just throw all her things away! I shouted, clutching the receiver. It may be old junk, but its a memory of Grandmother!
Emily, lower your voice, my mothers tired, irritated tone replied from the other end. I never said throw everything. You have no idea how much rubbish there iscloths from thirty years ago, newspaper clippings, dusty boxes Grandmother never discarded anything.
And she was right, I insisted stubbornly. Unlike us, always chasing the latest, she valued what she had.
Valued, my mother sighed. Fine, do as you wish. But the flat must be cleared by the end of the week; the new owners are already signing the papers.
I hung up and looked around the tiny onebedroom flat on the outskirts of Birmingham. The space seemed even smaller under the weight of every item that filled every inch. Grandmother Eleanor had passed away quietly in her sleep, and my mother, barely finished with the funeral, had decided to sell the flat. Why keep an empty flat in the middle of town? Money is what we need, she had explained, leaving the task of sorting eight decades of life to me.
Youre on holiday, and Im working, she said. I didnt remind her that my holiday had been booked for a seaside break, not for rummaging through old wardrobes. After all, Eleanor meant more to me than my own mother ever had.
I started in the kitchen, setting aside a few keepsakes: an antique teapot, a handpainted sugar bowl, and a set of pearlhandled teaspoons. The rest I packed into boxes for charity.
By evening my back ached. I brewed tea in Eleanors teapot and settled on the sofa, leafing through photographs Id found in the pantry. There was a young Eleanor with a long braid wound around her headjust like mine. A picture of my mother as a schoolgirl in a Boy Scout uniform. And a tiny infant cradled in Eleanors armsmy mother.
Photographs of my grandfather were scarce. He had died before I was born, and the family spoke of him in hushed tones. He was a good man, but life didnt go his way, my mother had once told my curious questions.
The second day I tackled the bedroom. A mountain of clothingneatly folded nightgowns, woollen cardigans, scraps of fabricmade me sigh; Eleanor had loved to sew. Almost everything was old, yet immaculate and ironed.
Methodically I examined each shelf and drawer. In the back corner of the wardrobe, behind a stack of sheets, I found a shoebox tied with twine. I untied it carefully.
Inside lay letters, a few notebooks, and a battered exercise book bound in brown paper. I randomly selected one of the lettersits envelope faded, stamped in the 1950s.
Dear Ellie! Writing from the road. Ill arrive tomorrow the neat masculine hand read, signed Yours, Andrew. My grandfathers name was Victorwho was Andrew?
I set the letter aside and opened the notebook. The first page bore the familiar handwriting: Diary of Eleanor Whitaker. Began 12 April 1954.
Night fell before I could read further. In the early entries, a young Eleanor wrote about life at college, friends, and her first loveexactly the Andrew from the letter. They met at a dance, fell in love, made plans, then he was called up for national service.
I turned the pages, living Eleanors life. August 1956: Received a letter from Andrew. He says hell visit soon. I miss him terribly! November that year: Andrew left. Those two weeks were the happiest of my life. Well wait a year for his discharge. Well marry as soon as he returns. I keep his photograph under my pillow.
The pages were filled with declarations of love, worries, hopes. Then the tone shifted. February 1957, the handwriting shaky: Ive just been told. Andrew died on duty. No details. I cant believe it. I dont want to believe. How shall I live now?
I closed the notebook, a lump forming in my throat. The first love had ended in tragedy, explaining why Eleanor never spoke of it.
The next day I learned that after Andrews death Eleanor sank into a deep depression. Then Victor, Andrews comrade, came to tell her of his final days. He was kind to the grieving Eleanor, supporting her. Their friendship grew.
10 September 1957. Victor proposed. I dont love him as I loved Andrew, but he is good and reliable. Mother says I must settle down; Im twentythree and should have a family. Yet I cant let go of Andrew
The wedding was modest. Eleanor wrote that she tried to be a good wife but often thought of Andrew. Victor seemed to understand without saying a word.
Then a entry that stopped my breath: 20 June 1958. Im three months pregnant, but the child is not Victors. Before Victors deployment I met Sama cousin of Andrews. We had known each other when Andrew was alive. He looked just like him We met by chance in a park, talked about Andrew, and it felt like a dream. One night, a madness I now regret. Now I bear a child. Victor believes the child is his and is overjoyed. I cannot tell him the truth; it would kill him. Living a lie is beyond my strength. Lord, what shall I do?
I slammed the diary shut. My mother was not Victors daughter after all? Who then was my real grandfatherthis Sam, Andrews cousin?
Stunned, I kept reading. Eleanor never told Victor the truth. I decided to keep the secret, for Victors sake, for the childs. No one will ever know. When my mother was born, Eleanor wrote she could not look at her: Little Emma looks just like Andrewsame eyes, same face shape. Sam, seeing her picture, would likely guess. Hes gone to London, we never see him again. Better this way; fewer temptations to break the family.
Entries grew rarer, ending in 1965: Today Emma turned seven. Victor loves her dearly. They build a birdhouse together for the cottage. I realise blood is not everything. Victor is her true fatherloving, caring. The secret shall remain a secret. I close the diary forever. Farewell, past life.
I set the notebook aside, a million questions swirling. Had my mother known the truth? Unlikelyshe always spoke warmly of her father, Victor. So Sam was my biological grandfather? Was he still alive? Did I have cousins, aunts, uncles I never met?
At the bottom of the box I found a faded photograph: a young soldier in a cap, smiling at the camera. The back read Andrew, 1955. Beside it, another picture labelled Sam, 1958. The second man resembled the first, though his features were softer and his hair lighter.
I compared the photos to my own reflection in the wardrobe mirror. The resemblance was undeniableespecially the eyes and jawline. No wonder my mother always wondered, Why dont I look like Father? Im restless, unlike his calm demeanor. Mother said I resemble her father, but Id never seen his picture. Now it made sense.
I faced a choice: tell my mother or keep quiet? Did she have the right to know that the man shed always called father was not her biological one?
Lost in thought, I didnt hear the front door slam.
Emily! Are you in there? my mothers voice pulled me back.
Yes, in the bedroom! I called, hurriedly shoving the diary and photos back into the box.
She stepped in: Hows it going? I stopped by after work to help.
Fine, I replied, forcing a smile. Just sorting slowly.
She glanced around, spotted the box of letters.
Whats that?
Oh, just Grandmas letters, diaries. I havent gone through everything yet.
Diaries? she raised an eyebrow. I didnt know Mum kept a diary.
She moved closer; I knew I couldnt hide it any longer.
Mother, I began gently, did you ever wonder why Grandmother never talked much about her youth?
No, why? she sat on the edge of the bed. She just didnt like to dwell on the past. Whats it to you?
Did you know she had another fiancé before Victor? A man named Andrew who died in the army?
Ive heard a rumor, she admitted uneasily. Is it written in the diary?
Yes, and more, I breathed. Mum, are you sure you want to hear?
She frowned. What is it? Speak plainly.
The diary says Victor wasnt your biological father.
Silence fell, heavy enough to hear the ticking of the old wall clock.
What rubbish is that? she finally demanded, reaching for the diary.
I handed it over. She put on her glasses and began to read. Her expression shifted from surprise to shock, then anger.
No it cant be. Father he always said I was his spitting image
Mother, I said, placing a hand on hers, what the diary says doesnt erase what Victor gave youlove, care, a life. Biology is just biology.
Why didnt she tell us? her voice cracked. Why keep it secret all these years? I had a right to know!
She feared the family would fall apart, I whispered. And your real father, Sam, never knew either. Thats what the diary records.
She flipped frantically through the pages, as if hoping for a contradiction.
Im sixty, she said softly. Ive lived a whole lifetime not knowing this. What now? Should I look for Sam? Hed be past eighty if hes still alive.
Its your decision, I replied, sitting beside her. But perhaps you have halfsiblings you never met. Our family could be larger than we thought.
She shook her head. I need to process this. I cant imagine how to feel about Mom now. So many lies
It wasnt a lie, I said. It was omission, kept for your happiness.
Easy for you to say! she snapped. My world has been turned upside down!
I stayed silent. My shock felt small compared to hers. She kept turning the pages, studying the photos, her face gradually softening.
You know, she said after a while, I always wondered why I didnt look like Fatherquiet, methodicalwhile Im restless and impatient. Mother said I resembled her father, but I never saw his picture. Now it makes sense.
She held Sams photograph, studying his features. He looks like me, she sighed. And you, too, especially the eyes.
So I carry the blood of two soldiersAndrew and Sam, I laughed lightly. No wonder Im so stubborn.
She managed a faint smile. Genes cant be denied. But, dear, Im grateful you found that diary. Bitter truth is still better than living in ignorance.
What will you do? I asked. Search for relatives?
I dont know, she murmured, tracing the photograph with her finger. Maybe. But first we must finish sorting the flat, the belongings. Life goes on, even with these revelations.
Perhaps we should postpone the sale? I suggested cautiously. Give us another month to go through everything, maybe find an address or a clue.
Alright, she agreed surprisingly quickly. Ill call the estate agent and put the deal on hold. Youre right; theres no rush. Seventy years of secrecy can wait a little longer.
We sat on Eleanors old bed, surrounded by her things that still held the warmth of her hands, each lost in thought. I thought of how a single decision could reshape several generations; she thought of what it meant to be a daughter, of a love stronger than blood, and of a truth that arrived far too late.
Dont be angry with Mother, she finally said. She did what she thought was right. And Father he will always be my real father, whatever biology says.
I understand, I replied. Family isnt just DNA.
She gently closed the diary, returned it to the box, but kept Sams photograph with her.
Ill keep this, she said. A piece of my history, even if I only just learned of it.
I embraced her, feeling a new closeness forged by shared secret and discovery.
Life moved forward, now armed with fresh knowledge and new questions. Yet the core remained unchangedthe love that bound us across decades and mysteries. Grandmother Eleanor took her secret to the grave, but she left a diary, a bridge between past and present, proof that every family story hides a universe of feelings, choices, and destinies.
